


water prayer

by AnotherGallavichLove



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Chef!Mickey, Deja Vu, M/M, Mind Fuck, Parallel Universes, Substance Abuse, Time Loop, escort!ian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25485568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove
Summary: In which Mickey finds himself trapped in a surreal time loop where he keeps dying and reliving his own thirtieth birthday party - therefore staring down the barrel of his own mortality. He's not alone.[Inspired by Russian Doll, but I wouldn't call it an AU as it will take a different direction.]
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	water prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Title is in reference to the song playing at the party - Water Prayer by Adham Shakih (Matt the Alien remix)

Mickey watched as the tap poured the cold, glimmering water into his cupped hands; right as it prepared to spill over his fingertips, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, letting the chilling sensation kick him back into gear. 

“Ay - watch it, Shaquille O’neal,” he threatened the tall, muscular stranger who bumped into his back, accidentally shoving him against the row of sinks. The man merely mumbled something beneath his breath - something Mickey couldn’t quite make out, but although his younger self would have pinned him up against the wall, probably thrown a punch and maybe spit into his face - he didn’t want to do any of that shit tonight. Not just because it was his birthday - but because it was his thirtieth. A part of him felt as if he was getting too old to get into fights that weren’t worth it. 

He shook his head to himself, and brought the fabric of his grey henley up, wiping the excess water off of his face, before elbowing his way out of the public bathroom. He scanned the crowd gathered in the rented loft for a face that he could recognize - he found Sandy, but her mouth was glued to some girl’s neck, so naturally, Mickey went in the other direction. Aimlessly, he wandered through the crowd until he found his brother. 

“Hey,” Iggy mused, throwing an arm around his neck, clearly buzzed from more than just the alcohol. “Happy birthday, little brother - you lookin’ for a joint?” 

“So this is the little brother,” the girl Iggy had been chatting up walked a few steps closer, eyes bloodshot, but her smile bright and inviting. A strand of the unnaturally bleach blonde hair had made its way out of her high ponytail, and Mickey could smell the overwhelming scent of vodka coming off of her breath. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, batting her eyelashes a lot more than what seemed natural. 

“Uh huh, sure,” he grumbled, before turning back to his brother. “Weed?” 

Thanks to the decades of practice, Iggy didn’t take more than thirty seconds to roll up a perfect joint, handing it over to Mickey along with a lighter. 

“Imma head out for some air,” he mumbled, but the words reached no one, because Iggy’s attention was back to the girl, his back to Mickey. 

It took Mickey a few minutes of wandering around the unknown loft before he found an empty bedroom, and he made his way inside, closing the door with a sigh, grateful to hear the bumping music muffled for a second. He wasn’t sure how Sandy had found this place - or really if it was meant for a party like this; considering the kitchen, the public-looking bathroom, and the multiple bedrooms, it seemed to be meant to house a group of friends on Christmas break - but that wasn’t Mickey’s thing. Nor Iggy’s, nor Sandy’s - nor any of their hundreds of friends and friends-of-friends that Mickey didn’t know the names of. 

Mickey, who had been leaning against the door, pushed himself to stand, making his way across the wooden floorboards, and over to the large window. He placed the joint in between his lips, and brought the lighter up, having to click it a few times before the flame came to life, filling his nose and lungs with the itchy, but addictive smoke. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful to Sandy and Iggy for throwing him a party like this - even though they all knew his thirtieth birthday was really just an excuse to get wasted and hook up with strangers - but the older he got, the more he felt as if his life was missing something. Ten years ago, he would have been happy to smoke a joint, down more beers than he could count, and find a guy to dick him down - he would have loved the opportunity to forget about his life, to lose himself. 

Twenty year old Mickey had had so many things to run from - his pops, for one. But also the nagging feeling in the back of his head that he would never be anything, never accomplish anything, never get out of Canaryville. 

Suddenly, Mickey felt the memories flip his stomach upside down - and not in a good way. Without giving it much thought, he put the joint back in between his lips, and reached up to open the window, giving him access to the sloped roof outside. The early November air chilled him to his bones, but he didn’t mind it too much; it was insistent on getting down into his lungs, and it helped him breathe - even as he inhaled the last of the joint, putting it out on the roof tiles next to him. 

Thirty year old Mickey didn’t have much to run from anymore. His life was nowhere near perfect, but he, Sandy and Iggy had all helped each other get out of the Milkovich House of Horrors as Sandy liked to call it. The last he heard, Terry got twenty to life for murder, and considering his age, Mickey wouldn’t have to worry much about him making it out of the joint alive. And while being a line cook was hardly a calming job, nor the job that Mickey would have seen himself having - it paid enough to pay the rent on the shoebox of a New York apartment he had gotten his hands on - besides; he liked cooking. 

So when he really thought about it - which he didn’t make a habit of - the problems he had faced ten years ago, they were all kind of… solved. Most of them, anyway. So he supposed that he should go back in through the window, and open the bedroom door - let the music flood his ears again - but there was something about the big three oh. Thirty. He was thirty. 

It didn’t necessarily make him upset - he didn’t have any anxiety about growing older like some people did. But it felt… odd. 

As he sat out there, letting the late fall chill seep through his skin and chill his bones, he realized something: he had never believed that he would make it to thirty. That was why it felt strange. He had never wanted to die - he had never been suicidal, but a part of him had always figured that Terry would get to him sooner or later - or he would get busted for something, and get shanked in prison - something. He had assumed that he would end up following in the footsteps of too many of his family members - both younger and older. 

But he hadn’t. And here he was. Thirty. 

With a sigh of… contentedness? Something like that - he placed a hand behind himself, reaching for the ledge of the window. He placed the sole of his shoe flat onto the roof. Right when he relaxed his grip on the window, figuring that he was all but inside, somehow his sole lost grip, and he fell. 

◯

Mickey watched as the tap poured the cold, glimmering water into his cupped hands; right as it prepared to spill over his fingertips, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, letting the chilling sensation kick him back into gear.

“Ay - watch it, Shaquille O’neal,” he threatened the tall, muscular stranger who bumped into his back, accidentally shoving him against the row of sinks.

Suddenly, Mickey looked into the mirror he was facing; he watched as the creases above his eyebrows grew deeper and deeper, the wheels inside of his brain starting to turn. He recognized this. He recognized this - all of it. Filling his hands with water, being bumped into by a man three times his own size - he remembered the scent of vomit and smoke. He recognized the strange, rasta remix music. 

He had been here before - he had walked out of here before, he had - he had found a bedroom, found a roof - he had fallen off the roof. He was sure of it. Had he woken up on a couch, or in a chair, he would have been doubtful - chalked it up to the weed giving him some strange dream, or deja vu - but he was standing. 

Alas, it had to be some kind of wild, hyper-convincing deja vu. There was no other explanation for it. He brought the fabric of his shirt to his face, wiping off the excess water, before he made his way out into the loft, scanning the crowd. He found Sandy, but she was making out with some girl he didn’t recognize, so he left her to it, instead heading to the kitchen where he found Iggy. 

“Hey,” his brother greeted, throwing an arm around his neck, the scent of alcohol and weed flooding Mickey’s nose. “Happy birthday, little brother - you lookin’ for a joint?” 

“What’s in ‘em?” Mickey asked, unable to shake the feeling that he had gone through all of this before - all of it. From the arm around his neck, to the words from his brother’s mouth, to the music blasting from the speakers - the girl standing behind Iggy. 

“So this is the little brother,” she mused. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Uh huh, sure,” Mickey hummed, turning back to Iggy. “The joints - what’s in ‘em?”

“Just weed man, the hell you on about? Want me to get you something’ else? I can get you -”

“Nah, man - just uh… forget about it,” Mickey shook his head, waving him off. “Keep the joint, m’not feeling it.” Iggy gave him a vague nod, and turned his attention back to the girl, as Mickey headed back into the crowd. He avoided the hallway that he thought might lead to an array of bedrooms, and windows with sloped roofs, and instead, he looked around for Sandy, figuring that he should tell her that he was heading out - he had to; there was nothing here that he wanted to take part in, especially not after the mind-fuck he had just experienced. He found her glued to the same girl he had seen her with before; briefly, he considered interrupting them, but it was really not something he felt like having a front-row seat to, so instead he went towards the exit, figuring an Irish goodbye was hardly the worst thing he had done in his life. 

He found his worn-out, black denim jacket hanging by the loft door, and he pulled it on, along with the green, knitted scarf. Then he elbowed himself through the crowd, and made his way down the countless flights of stairs, until he was finally out on the sidewalk. 

He stood there for a beat; without the heavy music, and the scent of weed and sweat, he felt slightly more sane. Perhaps that place just wasn’t meant to hold that many people - that was a thing, wasn’t it? That rooms and buildings had limits, based on availability of oxygen per square feet, or some bullshit like that? That was probably what it was - that was why he had felt so weird. It had to be. 

Shaking his head to himself, slightly amused, he started the short walk back towards his own apartment building. After a minute or two, he felt more and more ridiculous for having been so freaked out; he reached into the pocket of his jacket, fishing out a pack of smokes and a lighter - his own shit, shit that wasn’t laced with anything that would fuck him up. He reached a crosswalk, and he placed the cigarette in between his lips, lighting it, before walking out into the street, his life cut short by a speeding Volvo. 

◯

Mickey watched as the tap poured the cold, glimmering water into his cupped hands; right as it prepared to spill over his fingertips, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, letting the chilling sensation kick him back into gear.

“Ay - watch it, Shaquille O’neal.”

Okay. Something really fucking strange was going on. Mickey had dabbled in many different forms of drugs before - he knew what it was like to be high. Weed high, cocaine high, hallucinogenic high - nothing he had ever tried had made him legitimately think that he was living the same thing over and over again. And even so - he hadn’t even taken anything that he could remember, except for Iggy’s weed, but he wasn’t the kind of person to sneak anything into there without letting him know. He highly doubted that was it. 

Starting to become annoyed with himself, he walked back out. 

“Hey. Happy birthday, little brother. You looking for a joint?” 

“Not right now,” Mickey shook off the arm around his neck. “Look - anything feel off to you?” 

“Off? Nah, Mick, I’m great - sure you don’t want a joint?” 

“So this is the little -”

“Yeah, yeah - I’m the little brother - no I don’t want a joint. Fuck - I gotta find Sandy.” Mickey waved them off, and headed for the wooden beam in the middle of the room that he had seen her by before. She had the stranger pressed up against it, and Mickey spared them as few glances as possible as he went up to his cousin, lightly punching her shoulder to get her attention. 

“Hey, Mick - take it you’re not having a good time since you’re interrupting mine,” she teased, no true anger in her tone as she pulled the girl closer, grinning when the stranger kissed her neck. 

“Yeah, ‘cause this is real fun for me,” Mickey deadpanned, motioning in between the two of them. “Look, Sandy - you feel like something’s weird?” 

“Weird?” She questioned, tilting her head to the side, exposing more of her neck. “No… I mean, the music could be louder,” she said thoughtfully. 

“God damn it, never fucking mind,” Mickey sighed. “Go back to sucking each other’s faces. I’m heading home.” 

Mickey elbowed his way through the crowd, and put his jacket on, before making his way down the flights of stairs. He wasn’t sure how it happened - perhaps his shoelace coming untied, or a pool of a spilled drink on the smooth stairwell flooring - but suddenly, he could feel himself tumbling forwards, and down. 

◯

Mickey watched as the tap poured the cold, glimmering water into his cupped hands; right as it prepared to spill over his fingertips, he brought his hands apart, letting the collected water fall back down into the sink. He was bumped into, but said nothing, instead biting his tongue as he made his way back out into the loft. 

“Hey. Happy birthday, little brother.”

“So this is the little brother.” 

“Hey, Mick - take it you’re not having a good time since you’re interrupting mine.” 

‘ _ God damn it _ ,’ Mickey thought as he let the door slam behind him, leaving him outside on the sidewalk, cold air filling his lungs. ‘ _ I’m losing my fucking mind _ .’ 

◯

What the hell was going on? He had to be high. He couldn’t remember doing anything, but he had to have done something - he had to have something in his system that was fucking with him, that was the only possible explanation. What was the alternative? That he was caught in some infuriating loop of death? Bullshit. 

He sighed, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, as he looked around. What could he do? Walk home? Yeah, right - he had a decent feeling how that walk was going to end; he had already tried. And considering how many possible dangers the streets of New York city housed, he wasn’t optimistic. 

But he had to try, right? What other option did he have? Like hell he was turning around and walking back up to the loft to drown in awful music and the stench of vodka. 

Taking a breath, he let his legs take him along the sidewalk, down the few blocks until he reached the crosswalk. For the first time in what had to be his entire life, he waited until the light turned green, looked both ways, and then passed. 

Finally, he made it to the familiar, run-down apartment building. He had never before been so happy to see the dilapidated brick facade, or the hazardous fire escape. He relaxed, as he dropped the cigarette he had been smoking onto the ground, stomping it out before he pulled the door open, happily breathing in the stench of mold, and faint hint of gasoline. 

A group of half-familiar people were already gathered in front of the shabby elevator - the girl who lived next-door to him, the elderly couple who visited their son on the floor above - along with a woman his own age that he didn’t recognize, as well as a tall, redheaded man. 

The elevator opened, and they all made their way inside, Mickey reaching into his pocket for his doorkeys, as he pressed his back to the mirror; he had absolutely zero desire to have a group of strangers crowd his personal space. It was going to be okay. He was home now - he was going to brush his teeth, go to bed, and he was going to wake up tomorrow, and he was going to call Sandy, and they were going to make fun of the bad trip. That was what this was - a bad trip. On a drug he couldn’t remember taking. 

Suddenly, the elevator shook, and came to a stop. 

“What just happened?” Someone asked. 

“Relax, it just stopped,” someone else stated. 

“I’ve been in a stopped elevator before, that felt like we were swinging from side to side - are we about to fall?” 

“If we fall, we’re gonna die.” 

Mickey tuned their panicking out, sighing to himself. Of course. Of course he was dying. That was what he did now, apparently. He died all the time. 

Absentmindedly, he looked around, settling his eyes on the redhead, who was standing next to him. He seemed completely calm - staring out into space, as if nothing was wrong. 

“Didn’t you hear, man? We’re gonna die.” 

When green eyes met Mickey’s, he saw something familiar - something he couldn’t quite place. An exhaustion, a mental fatigue. 

“It’s okay. I die all the time.” 


End file.
